


Every Snarry FanFic Ever

by Sparcina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Because not everything can be angsty, Clichés are in for once, M/M, pure madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter and the Deadly Blow-Job. Every cliché I could think of has answered the call for your pleasure!<br/><i>“Unacceptable, Potter. Minus 1000 bajillions points for Gryffindors, and a detention for you tonight, because I hate your father and your godfather and would like to rim your ass while you clean my cauldrons, if you get my very subtle meaning.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Snarry FanFic Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BakerStreetMuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStreetMuse/gifts), [PinkToby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkToby/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Every Hannigram FanFic Ever: An Adventure in Smut](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452799) by [BakerStreetMuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStreetMuse/pseuds/BakerStreetMuse), [PinkToby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkToby/pseuds/PinkToby). 



> This is a gift to BakerStreetMuse and PinkToby, who wrote "Every Hannigram FanFic Ever", which makes me laugh every time I read or share it. The idea of the present fic, obviously, comes from theirs. Thank you!

Harry Potter, first of his name and most eligible bachelor in the world, notably for having killed-but-not-quite a guy whose name it was bad manners to say out loud, stared at the depths of a potion requiring 69x1012 ingredients and as many turns of the wand to stir it, clockwise every twelve seconds. Of the corner of his precious emerald eye, he caught his best friend, bright and cute Hermione, accomplishing the deed in less time it took an average Dead Eater to say _Avada Kedavra._

“Potter!”

The name was uttered with enough scorn to kill That-Guy-Whose-Name-Is-A-Stupid-Anagram a second time. The man wielding the contempt crossed the ever darkening dungeon classroom with sure steps, his even blacker cape billowing behind him, and came to stand right by Harry. Severus Snape, as was his habit every day of the week and then some more, wore his trademark dark robes buttoned to the neck. He adopted his favorite position–arms crossed and sneer in place–and tsked at the somehow good potion Harry had produced.

“Unacceptable, Potter. Minus 1000 bajillions points for Gryffindors, and a detention for you tonight, because I hate your father and your godfather and would like to rim your ass while you clean my cauldrons, if you get my very subtle meaning.”

Harry could only stare at the man. Had he heard right? Had the man he was fantasizing about, a man he was sure had the most incredibly toned body under all those BDSM caging robes–because really, why else would the guy wear such unfitting garments— really making out a pass at him? The other possibility, quite dreading, was that he had inhaled enough toxic fumes to hallucinate again. Or lose consciousness. Or some bones. He was a masochist at heart and was still coming to terms with it.   

“Potter, I suggest you go back to work before I make this detention a permanent fixture in your schedule.”

Harry straightened, wand at the ready.

“I would like to, Sir.” Snape arched an eyebrow. “I mean: yes, Sir!”

Some Slytherin snickered in the opposite corner of the room. Probably Malefoy, admiring his silvery hair on the side of his cauldron. If the rumors were true, he spent at least one hour in every three applying the necessary spell to hold it in place, when he was not jerking off at the sound of his own voice. Harry imagined very well how a-fucking-mazing wanking would be if he had Snape’s voice on stereo. That deep, silky baritone that told him all kind of dirty things ranging from polishing his wand to squeeze down on his Erlenmeyer…

But Harry didn’t have time for such trivialities: after all, he was expected to kill That-Guy-With-The-Fancy-Nose a second time while simultaneously avoiding being killed by wannabe Death Eaters, Dumbledore’s lemon drops or his ridiculous crush on Snape, who at least claimed all first three places on the list of persons who hated him the most.

Why did he have to entertain fantasies about Snape? That would get him cut in little bloody cubes in That-Other-Scarred-Dude’s favorite glass faster than Lockhart could smile at himself in a mirror. But barely, really.  

He was so fucked–he just didn’t know in which position yet.

*

His detention started like any other detention, except that he wanted to shed all his clothes at once but also act like the shy little virgin everyone thought he was–including Snape, he hoped. What could he do to make Snape lose his cold and fuck him senseless? Sure, he probably didn’t have anything too fancy to offer the former Death Eater, and what he considered wild would probably be tame for one who attended weekly cocktail happy hours with The-One-Who-Wished-He-Owned-The-World-Already.

Harry shook the thought loose before he started wondering about things like Nagini-play and Dead-eaters–the game, not the morons wearing masks. But then it led him to wonder if Snape actually knew a lubricating spell, and he decided that yes, Snape ought to, because Snape knew everything even remotely connected to sex.

Sex gods were like that, and Snape beat Lockhart flat on his back, whatever Hermione said.

“You will scrape clean the 69 cauldrons in that room,” a sexy voice announced.

Harry’s knees turned to jelly. He didn’t answer and got down to work. The sooner he started, the sooner he would be done, and could go back to his dorm to _not_ envy his two best friends incomprehensively screwing each other and _not_ masturbating for the nth time that day. He had to keep some energy for the next Quidditch match, if not for saving the world.

Just as Harry was contemplating banging his head on the nearest cauldron–it had to be Malfoy’s sperm soiling it, the stain refused to go–a bell rung out in the dungeon.

“Voldemort is at our doors,” Dumbledore’s voice cheerily announced. Harry imagined the old crackpot stroking his phoenix with all the glee that the situation required. “Everybody, prepare for battle, especially the First-Year and Harry, because we can’t afford to lose him.”

Footsteps pounded on the ceiling, forcing armies of Russian doll Aragogs to exit the ceiling. Some billowing of cape later, Snape grabbed Harry by the neck and put him back on his feet. His breath brushed Harry’s cheek, making his head spin from the mixture of potions, spices and sandalwood. He had always known Snape would smell amazing, because no self-respecting man would go around with greasy hair _and_ bad smell. It just broke the laws of physics.

“Let’s finish this bastard,” Snape hissed.

Harry shuddered. “I was born to save the world.”

“We will start with the most important part.”

With a silent spell, Snape got rid of Harry’s clothes and pinned him to his mahogany desk. Potions of all kinds, dissertations filled with angry red comments and dildos of various shapes fell to the floor all around them, setting the room on fire. Harry coughed and started to cry, blinded by the smoke. The footsteps on their heads hadn’t faltered; curses were now shouted, students killed and Death Eaters dying. Snape cast another spell, and all the fire in the dungeon turned into lube. Somehow, it didn’t affect their position.

“You are a whore,” Snape crooned in his ear, one finger hovering over his pink pucker. “Just like…”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fucked my father too!”

Snape slapped his ass and shoved his index finger past the ring of flesh. Harry cried out and tensed, closing down on the pianist finger of a man who probably could play in a professional orchestral if he so wished.

“Actually, your father fucked _me_ ,” Snape amended. “He even thought it was his idea.”

“But…”

“Keep silent or I am going to throw you in that pool.”

Not knowing if Snape meant the growing splash of lube or the fighting ring upstairs–and not interested in neither–Harry kept quiet, allowing himself only the barest of shivers as a second finger was added in his hole, then a third.

“Sir…”

A dragon was knocking on the window, politely asking to take part in whatever it was those two humans were doing. Snape hexed it in a parallel universe before freeing his swelling cock.

“Manners are important,” he said in his doctoral voice. “Magical creatures are poor at it, and so are you. That’s why you’re getting fucked right now, Potter.”

Harry let out a disappointed moan. “I thought you wanted me.”

“Of course I want you, silly boy. Everybody does. The first one to claim you will be covered in gold sprinkles and live forever.”

“Oh.” Harry winced as Snape lined up his big prick and inserted the tip into his tiny, tiny hole, getting untinied by the instant. “I didn’t know that.”

“You know nothing, Potter.”

Snape fucked him so long Harry came at least fourteen times. By then Snape was effectively covered in gold sparkles, and all noise above them had stopped, which could only mean one thing: all their friends were dead, and Voldemort waited for the one he thought was still a virgin to kneel down and swear allegiance.

Snape magicked him into his clothes, licked the cum on his fingers and tilted his head towards the door.

“Now go and save the world.”

And that was how Harry ended up blowing A-Very-Surprised-Mad-Lord to oblivion. Because sex and love were connected, at least as far as magic was concerned, and Voldemort was fucked all over again.

And then it was Harry’s turn.

“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yessssssssssss!”

“If only you could channel that enthusiasm during potion class,” Snape sighed.

**THE END**


End file.
